The Librarian's Spell by Patricia Rice (reading eggs books TXT) 📕

To Lydia’s relief, Laddie returned with his mule and cart and settled into the stable. She could go into town again! Unlike Mr. C, she wasn’t a hermit. She loved the library and could spend an entire wintry day in it, but she loved people as well.

Well, maybe not all people, all the time, she thought, listening to the arrival of a carriage and team. The only person arrogant enough to take a carriage up that rough, hilly path was their neighbor, Lord Crowley.

Mr. C had usually refused to talk with him, leaving Lydia to endure the baron’s tirades and his improper proposals—most of them monetary, thankfully, and not personal. Although she suspected if she had not towered over the cad by some inches and a few stone, the personal part may have required evasive skills she did not possess.

She almost wished Max were here. She prayed he hadn’t run off to Burma. Or Siam. Or whatever the farthest place was from here.

Deciding she needed some symbol of authority, she added Mr. C’s key ring to her skirt ties. She didn’t own pearls or silk gowns, so she needed a pretense of authority if she were to step into Mr. C’s very large shoes.

“Lord Crowley to see you, mum.” Beryl curtsied in the doorway.

So Zach the footman hadn’t returned yet. Jingling her keys for reassurance, Lydia held her head high and sailed down the corridor to the small—newly clean—parlor. They’d have to uncover the great hall for the funeral service.

“Lord Crowley,” Lydia said with a haughty nod as she entered, the way she’d seen Mr. C do when he’d been persuaded to talk with the man. “Please do not smudge the glass.”

Probably five-five, with all his weight in his bulging belly, Crowley was fingering an antique crystal clock on the mantel. It was a work of art in gold and bronze with a crystal cover that Mr. C had prized and kept running, and Marta polished lovingly.

Crowley took his grimy hands off the crystal and wiped them with his handkerchief as if the clock had contaminated them. “Miss Wystan,” he said curtly. “I have come to extend condolences.”

“The household thanks you.” She did not sit down, forcing him to remain standing. “I fear we’re at sixes and sevens today. We hope to hold services tomorrow.”

She would not lie and say he would be welcome.

He patted his forehead with the handkerchief before tucking it back into his pocket. “Unfortunately, I have business in Edinburgh tomorrow. I thought I might inquire if you will need transport. My carriage is more comfortable than the train.”

Lydia forced her eyebrows from reaching her hairline. “That is very kind of you, sir, and I appreciate the offer.” She’d rather take a fast train than a slow ride with Mr. Crowley. She summoned courage she didn’t know she possessed to continue. “But I am Mr. Cadwallader’s executor and the current librarian. I won’t be going anywhere soon.”

She tried not to cringe when she called herself librarian. If Mr. C believed it. . .

“Executor?” Crowley harrumphed. “Women can’t be executors. They have no legal rights. I knew Cadwallader was losing his wits. You’d best go with me and talk to his solicitors directly.”

Lydia felt a chill but refused to give into it. “Times are changing, my lord. I am quite certain his excellent solicitors would not have drawn up his papers and filed them if they were not legal. The castle is in a trust, and I am executor of that trust. I hope you have a safe journey. Good day.” She marched out. Or retreated. She wasn’t entirely certain except she’d been abominably rude—for good reason.

Lord Crowley wanted to buy the castle.

Mr. C had said that would be over his dead body.

They were burying his body tomorrow.

Max returned to the castle on the back of a broad-beamed horse Old Tom had assured him had once belonged to Mr. Cadwallader before his apoplexy. The horse swayed like an ox, but the mare bore Max’s weight up the rutted path without breathing hard.

She was also wide enough to hold a six-year-old boy who wordlessly clung to her mane.

Max was fairly certain Bakari spoke English. The boy’s mother had, quite volubly, if Max recalled rightly. But he hadn’t seen Bakari since he was a wailing infant.

Max was as terrified as the boy.

To his relief, a lad actually popped out of the stable when Max dismounted. He lifted his son down and unbuckled his saddle bags. “We’ll have trunks arriving,” he warned. “I’m Max Ives, by the way.” He offered his hand to the scrawny lad taking the reins.

The stableboy gaped at him in awe. “Yes, sir, Mr. Ives. I’ll carry the trunks in.” He didn’t shake Max’s hand.

The British class system was more structured than the American. He should remember that and not make the servants uncomfortable.

Not if he planned to stay, leastways.

That part remained undecided. His feet itched to be off, but Lydia’s pleas last night—had completely unnerved him. And his son’s silence. . . made him itch all over. That was the only way he could describe it.

“Come along, lad. What did your mother call you?” Max knew the boy’s formal name, of course. He’d abide by it if necessary. But a good old-fashioned Bradford would go further in these climes.

The boy didn’t answer. His huge brown eyes had fastened on the towering castle.

It was a great stone heap, like all others of its ilk, except no one had thought to turn this one into a Gothic horror of turrets and arches. Yet. It had once been a square crenellated fortress with an enormous, disproportionate tower from earlier times attached. A few more impressive blocks of stone had been added over the centuries, some of them even dressed up to look vaguely Georgian. But it was a hilltop fortress, nonetheless.

“Shall we go in?” he asked the boy, pointing to the side door nearest the stable.

Wide-eyed, the boy nodded. So he did understand English. Max led the way across the stable yard